


Imbrication

by schmevil



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Backstory, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:45:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schmevil/pseuds/schmevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We had this vital, and glorious duty: to train the Slayer, and guide her in her mission. But who were we?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imbrication

"My father sat me down for a fatherly chat. After inquiring as to my emotional state, and my progress in maths, he informed me that I was to be a Watcher. He quickly sketched out the details of the organization, and what my duties would be. That's how it was."

"But not me."

"No, not all of us were born to it."

"You make it sound so medieval."

"It is. Was. The Watchers existed - as a formal organization - for a long time. Long enough to develop certain traditions."

"And now that's all gone."

He tips his glass in agreement.

"Do you miss it?"

"No." Giles rubs his glasses on his shirt; a difficult habit to break. "The archives, certainly. Some of the people. But not the organization. The Watchers... there was very little worth preserving."

"But all that history..."

"Written by the victors." It's a terrible response, meant less for her, than for people who are already dead. Her brow contorts in confusion, annoyance, a series of possible deconstructions. Giles doesn't want to elaborate. Neither does he want to have this conversation. It's not interesting to him, but it is, perhaps, necessary.

"Ages ago, when demons plagued humanity in light and dark without fear, a group of wise men decided to change things. They summoned a powerful demon. They fought and defeated it, and contained its power within the body of a young girl."

"The first Slayer."

"This piece of history was lost to us. We knew how to recognize and train Slayers. We knew the demon languages and traditions, and how to fight them one on one. We didn't, in any sense, know what a Slayer truly was, or how she was _made_."

Made. Not some mysterious force of nature; not a gift from the powers that were. Made by _men_, Watchers, in their earliest form, who then took responsibility for training, even raising her.

One girl, alone against the darkness.

"We had this vital, and glorious duty: to train the Slayer, and guide her in her mission. But who were we?" Giles drains his glasses, and puts it down, on the exact center of the coaster.

"I don't understand."

"Neither did we."

 

_Pale Shadow_

 

He eats scones, piled thick with strawberry jam and cream, licking his fingers after every bite.

Munch, crunch go the bones of unfortunate townspeople as the dragon devours all.

His father doesn't like it when he plays dragon.

He struggles, but the scone is wrenched out of his tiny grip. "No!" He watches it fall to the dry ground, fascinated by the jam (blood) that's dribbling from the now soggy scone (flesh). The scone lands beside an anthill. Barley, the family's marmalade kitten, is as fascinated by it as Rupert, and pokes at it with one wary paw. She quickly gets over her nervousness. The scone is soon shaded with a layer of dirt.

"Dragons don't belong in games, Rupert." His father carefully wipes his hands and face clean with an age-softened cloth. Rupert turns into the warm touch. "We must get you something more appropriate."

His father's big hand wraps around his. Warm. Like a caged monster, he thinks; a minor rebellion. His father leads him over to a pile of toys Rupert had considered and tossed aside in favour of tea (the moat) and the trimmings.

The blocks are usually a favourite. Today he feels like squishing things instead of building castles. He could build a cave for the dragon, though. Merely falling to the ground wouldn't keep any self-respecting dragon down; it's sleeping, like only dragons can. They can come out from your dreams, all lightning and fire and nothing can stop them when they feel like flying. His cousin told him.

The soldiers are fun. He thought of pairing them, brave knights to the dragon's enduring cunning. The sticky red of the jam was distracting.

His father reaches for a real knight, with a sword and shield and everything. The silver-painted plastic glitters, a sharp, in-focus contrast to the haze of summer heat. The knight sails at Rupert, his father's hand incidental, and he wrestles his way out of his father's lap, to play with it.

A gurgle of words tumble from him in an effort to express that he's pleased with how shiny and pretty and hard the knight is. The knight has long black hair and his father says that she's a special kind of knight, not really a knight, but a guardian all the same.

He just likes the way she fits in his hand and how great she'll be when the dragon wakes.

His father takes his leave, but it barely registers. Behind a brittle tuft of sun-bleached grass, something flashes; catches and holds the sun captive.

The dragon.

She wants to rush forward and he lets her, eager to see how it ends.

***

Sweet wrappers and cheap plastic toys.

Giles is much older now and knows better uses for sweet wrappers and cheap plastic toys. At seventeen he could stare down the world, if he really wanted. Better though, to play with the kinds of toys he knows his father would really hate.

He lets them call him Giles but he likes the new nickname that Ethan says he's truly earned. He can't imagine his parents ever calling him Ripper, but he's willing to instruct them to do so, if only to see the looks on their faces and make them know, make them really understand how much he (sometimes) hates them.

He's surprised when they slip and occasionally concede a 'Giles.' He takes it as more proof that he's right about his parents. How weak they are.

Every fairy tale ends the same way. The ending is the most important part. You can disregard the particulars of Hansel, Gretel and Snow White as long as you remember that in the end, everyone finds their place. Sometimes quietly, sometimes joyfully, and sometimes kicking and screaming every meter as he's dragged into hell. Indoctrination ex machina.

Watcher children are force fed folklore like others watch Saturday morning cartoons. He can recite parts of the Mabinogen from heart, and he finds Biblical references in places he wishes he couldn't. The reason we get more than three times our recommended dose of folklore, he thinks, is that beyond the hints of real, useful, demonology, they want to keep us in line.

He has an epiphany.

He's high at the time, really quite amazingly high. But he doesn't discount it. He's watching a chameleon slither up a withered branch of poplar, that Ethan had shoved into its terrarium. Chameleons, Ethan says are the best possible pet for someone with too much time and money on his hands. They blend into everything around them; everything they crawl over. Taking on just enough of its nature to pass. But if they move quickly enough you can see the illusion: off, on, off, on. Which, fine, is fascinating from a biological perspective, but not especially interesting otherwise.

Giles doesn't understand until they get high and Ethan explains it again.

Giles watches the chameleon scamper around its terrarium, unmoved by the human hovering over it. As long as it keeps steady, Giles can't entirely tell the difference between the chameleon, and the sand and sticks it runs over. Now that he knows it's there, it's easier to spot. Here, hiding behind a handful of dried up old moss. Here, hunkered under a strip of bark.

Don't run too fast, don't reach for too much. "People might notice."

"Are you talking to my lizard?" Ethan asks. Giles can hear and see the innuendo even through the haze of smoke, but he ignores it, in favour of taking another pull.

A few more, and he starts thinking about things best ignored or buried. Giles is lost for hours in visions, silly and absurd and horrible, of burning lizards, laid out on a river bank. Pale, horned, children, crouched at the edge of the water, drinking. Innocent and unconcerned.

After they've (partially) sobered up, they head out to the park. All their friends cancel on them, but they decide to go ahead with their plans, with their much reduced circle of two.

It's high summer and today they're going to perform a little ritual. Nothing like blood magic; they haven't gotten so far. Further than allspice and Authentic Runestones , though. Ethan's been eager to try other, more personal forms of magic but Giles prefers to keep these things separate. There are some rules that even he doesn't want to break. Ethan can find someone else to take that risk with.

Lavender and white oleander are more powerful than you would expect; more powerful than the sheep that populate the Real World would ever suspect. He places sprigs of the herbs under the strips of willow bark they've arranged. He strikes a match and tucks it under the bark, hoping it will catch right away. He's only got two more matches. The tiny flame of the match catches and spreads.

Ethan leans in close, watches the herbs, roots and other ingredients curl dark against the low burning embers. Giles is sharper. He rests back on his heels waiting -

Fire explodes in his companion's face and Ethan flings himself backward, cursing; his arms going like windmills. Shock and thrill burnt into his face; eyebrows completely burnt off. Giles doesn't bother to hide his laughter, just shakes with it, his body racked with huge gulping whoops. He couldn't stop now if he wanted. He's distantly aware that he's still high, and that playing with fire - magical fire - when you're intoxicated is generally a terrible idea. He's too high - too himself - to care.

Ethan is still flat on his back, when catalytic smoke starts to climb in lazy skirls, sparking where it glances off the carefully placed stones. At the first spark, Ethan starts to act like he's on a bad trip; twitching and obviously losing it. Explosive smoke, like a cloud of fire crackers - it is like a bad trip.

Ethan howls out a protest. No words in it, just pure terror. He rubs his balled fists over his eyes, and quickly graduates to raking his face with clawed fingers. Good thing, Giles thinks - absently, barely concerned; barely capable of concern - that he's got short nails.

Giles isn't entirely sure what's supposed to happen - his translation of the spell was rushed at best - but getting to see Ethan claw at his bare face is good enough, as afternoon entertainment goes, he thinks. And the smoke is rather brilliant. He loses himself for a while in watching it. Now it explodes into sparks every time it touches something bigger than a dust mote. A fly, poor unfortunate thing, gets in its path, and is gone - just gone - in a bright flash.

Ethan rolls back and forth on the dry grass, batting ineffectually at his face. It's not on fire and it's a mystery what he thinks he's actually accomplishing. He doesn't seem to be seriously upset though - not anymore - so Giles just enjoys the show.

Still, he watches the smoke for any signs of impending magic. They combed the spellbook for something that sounded cool, but you can never been certain about these things. _For Enemies_ could turn out to be a recipe for rhubarb pie. It's hard to find anything worth spending time on and this book, well, Giles had to nick this one from his father's collection. He just hopes it's worth the trouble, beyond the inevitable confrontation with his father, of course. Which is it's own kind of entertainment.

Disappointingly, the smoke shows no sign of doing anything more exciting than it already has. Flashier than your average card trick, but not much more interesting.

Tricks. He found the spell in a chapter called _Craft and Recognition_. Ethan is tripping out, beyond what even really good weed can account for, but Giles just sees smoke, and some sparks. Maybe he's not seeing what Ethan is seeing. He unfocuses his eyes, willing himself to unsee. Maybe if he changes something, turns his back...

He starts to turn and the motion is made slow as molasses, some very literal trick of perception he doesn't understand, surely. Craft and Recognition - it's just a trick, right? He speaks, or tries to. His lips and tongue stuttering out the syllables in jagged bits and pieces.

"Eee thhhh annnn"

Magic isn't supposed to be like cheap film effects but from here, it's looking more and more likely that's exactly what it is. With a little weed to add verisimilitude, right?

He glances to the side - somehow manages that easily enough, despite his growing inability to move any other part of his body - and Ethan is still rolling around. For once he looks like the cunt that Giles has secretly known he is - no dignity at all.

The fire is burning out now, almost gone.

He's almost ready to put the whole thing down to some bad cheese when he sees a face in the smoke. She screams at him.

Later, he puts it down to the weed, or a morsel of bad cheese.

***

There is a place, somewhere between being told that monsters are real and actually seeing one for the first time. Endless summer, all burnt blue skies and dusty roadsides. He'd like to have a guitar strapped across his back and a comfortable pair of boots on his feet. Larkin in his jacket pocket, and nothing pushing him. Instead he has a notebook, a pack of throwaway biros and a rucksack full of very old books. Somehow, even studying is beautiful, here.

When he opens the flap to pull out his snack - a dull, mottled apple, shipped over from California - the sound and scent of old paper comes out of the bag with it, in a burst, like one of the clouds of dust that swirl around at his feet, even indoors. He might prefer it if there actually was an accompanying dust cloud. He's getting a little tired of the ever-present dust that isn't - as if all Watcher-owned buildings are covered in a thick layer of ancient dust, even when they aren't. Wear, and age, and dust, dust, dust.

He buffs the apple on his shirtsleeve and leans into the lecture on vegetarian (by choice) Aramaic demons. The lectern at the head of the room is scarred, and lists to the right. Likewise, the wood panels of the room are cracked and faded. If they were softer they'd be peeling from the walls like strips of wallpaper. Instead they shy away from the walls, in long warped waves.

Miss. Jenkins doesn't match the room.

She's the resident expert on vegetarian - not herbivorous - demons and today she's teaching the class, ten men and women, as much as she can about them in the space of five hours. The lecturers complain about time constraints here, just like they do at other schools. For Jenkins, five days wouldn't be enough time, let alone five hours.

She leans into the lectern and it teeters with the verve she puts into the lesson. Giles has been watching it from the corner of his eye for the past twenty minutes. He's waiting for her to notice and stop leaning on it, because as much as it might amuse the other students to see the prim Jenkins topple to the floor, Giles doesn't want to laugh at her. He never wants to find anything funny in her.

This is the new Giles and he lets her call him Rupert. All the instructors call him Rupert but he likes the name best when it comes from her messily painted lips. Her lipstick is always drawn in an untidy line and sometimes it makes it all the way up to the fine down on her upper lip.

Jenkins was there on Giles' first night here. He didn't arrive like the others, during the day, on the first of the month. Giles had gotten in a bit of trouble and was happy to get here when he did. Happy, really, to get here at all. He absorbs his lessons with a mixture of duty and fascination.

He may have come here in partial disgrace, but that's not how he'll leave.

What he likes about Jenkins, (aside from the obvious), is how for her, nothing matters but his performance in class. She doesn't care about his connections, or lack thereof, or how he spent his summer vacation. All she cares about is his mind. There's something innocent about her, and being with her, sometimes he can actually believe for a while that his mind is all that matters.

Jenkins' skirt is always getting caught in her tights but Giles never looks at the backs of her thighs and he's remembering how to blush.

It's easier than not blushing ever was.

"The [insert ridiculous demon name here] cannot be considered vegetarians, though they are closely associated with [more ridiculous demon names]. This demon objects to the ritualistic consumption of young, whether human, animal or demon, but adult fauna makes up an important part of its diet…"

The rest of the class stares blankly. Most of them will never make it into the field. They're destined for the back rooms of the Watcher archives, working the least exciting jobs. Giles has only been here a week but he knows he doesn't belong in this class. Jenkins is helping him transfer to the advanced courses.

They had tea last Friday and she said she was surprised - and pleased - to see how much he knew about the subject matter, and how seriously he took everything. But everyone takes it seriously or they never would have come here. She said she likes his approach to the work. No matter how eager the other students are, they're young and they don't know what's important. Not like Rupert.

Giles knows the academy is where he needs to be, learning about vegetarian demons.

"But, the others, if they're vegetarians by choice doesn't that make them different? Um, better than other demons?"

Jenkins stares down the questioner, over the thin red rims of her cats-eye glasses. When he drops his gaze, she turns her attention to the rest of the class. As she surveys them, looking for at least one student with - possibly, maybe, hopefully - an answer, the beaded string attached to the arms of her glasses swings, bumping into her messy chignon over and over. "The rest of you. What do you think of Mr. Peel's question?"

As one the class protests their ignorance, save Giles who remains quiet.

Jenkins puts her notes down. They slide to the edge of the lectern and she doesn't notice the few loose sheets that fall right off. She steps away from it and stalks towards the first row of desks, lifts a hand and scans. She settles on a very young man, two seats to Giles' right.

She points at him, and Giles can almost hear it, like a gunshot. "Mr. Tanner. Mr. Peel has suggested that this particular cultural imperative has a moral dimension. Your thoughts?" As always the words are bitten off in her almost absurdly cultured accent.

Mr. Tanner sits a little straighter, probably unconsciously, and glances down at the sheaf of notes he is shuffling. Giles would bet that Tanner has no need of his notes - Tanner has already shown signs of being a talent in demonology. Tanner hesitates, not knowing how to please Jenkins. He clears his throat nervously, then visibly screws up his courage. "There's no difference."

Jenkins arches an eyebrow, begins to pace. "No difference?" The room falls utterly silent. Giles is sure that some students must be holding their breath. "No difference?" she asks again, louder this time. "What is the purpose of this class?" She scans the class again with her hand. Her long, red painted nail arcs out from her finger like a claw. It stops on Giles.

He shifts in his seat, clears his throat. He manages not to shuffle his papers. "Comparative Demonology gives the student a basis for understanding the physical, magical, psychological and social differences between the various species (and races) of demons."

Jenkins nods. "No difference?" Tanner blushes. "Let's try this again, Mr. Tanner. Mr. Peel has suggested that this particular cultural imperative has a moral dimension. What are your thoughts on this?"

Tanner lets out a huff of breath, expends a valuable second on shifting in his seat, and then just blurts out whatever comes to mind, it seems. "Human cultures give us many examples of norms that... appear to be moral, but simply aren't. Customs that don't have a basis in morality. In their 1895 study of vampires, Hewlett and Vargas showed that demon psychology is sufficiently aberrant - different from human - that one can't assume morality plays any role in their thought process. While some demons have made the choice not to eat the flesh of other… creatures, we cannot assume that they're worried about hurting other creatures, like many human vegetarians are."

"Right!" Another student, Alice Warrick jumps in. "They could just as easily be worried about parasites or disease."

"Dirty humans." Jenkins stares at the class, her arms folded.

 

{_Imbrication_}

 

How much of it was Giles, and how much was Buffy, is a question he has never been able to answer. He's thought about it, of course, considered carefully and at length. He's approached the problem from various angles, and never come close to the answer.

 

When Rupert is ten, his father sits him down for a serious conversation. First he goes through all the appropriate motions of father-son communication: asking him how he is, and how his studies go.

They briefly discuss how Rupert is handling the class bully, who recently pegged him as a source of easy money. Rupert doesn't tell his father about the bully. It is all found out, through some mysterious parental alchemy, that is beyond his understanding. For once, his father is full of good advice. Rupert decides not be annoyed.

Then his father tells him that he is going to be a Watcher, like he is, and his mother before him was. Rupert accepts this as the simple truth, and moreover, as something incredible and wonderful. Demons vs. Grammar - how could demons not win? And further - what ten year old boy has it in him to refuse his destiny? Not Rupert, certainly. Not until much later.

The conversation happens during tea time. By the time his mother appears to take the dishes away into the kitchen, and wipe off the table, Rupert's father has declared the subject closed for the afternoon, and sent him off with his first Watcher homework.

The book has no title, but could be called, _The Children's Bible of Demonology (picture edition)_. His later suspicion is that it was very cannily designed to hook them young. Rupert is most certainly hooked.

By the time Giles - no longer Rupert - is sent off to the Watcher academy in serious personal - but private, they'd kept it carefully private - disgrace, he has memorized the contents of it, and many other volumes. He reads, and haltingly speaks, Latin, Greek, and the current demonlingua franca. He also knows how to:

roll a perfect joint

play Little Wing

break into, and hotwire a car in under sixty seconds

summon a demon

watch a friend die

lie to the police

lie to himself

Excellent grades quickly wash away the taint of those and other skills, acquired during a summer holiday that he and his father don't talk about. Dropping out of Oxford is forgiven. A childish, but brief moment of rebellion, before Giles accepts his true destiny as a Watcher, and then settles into a respectable career. Soon, excitement comes from new editions of old books, and the latest issue of a favourite publication.

Giles doesn't forget - how could he, when the dangers he's invited into his life could so easily intrude again - but nor does he dwell on what has been, and what might yet be. A Watcher watches. He prepares the Slayer, whether one on one, as her personal Watcher, or as a part of the larger organization that supports them both. He believes. But he also questions.

 

Everything changes when he meets her. It's like a bit of deliberate and very personal plate tectonics - he rearranges himself, layer after layer, to what is needed. Is he new-made, or is it so much imbrication - pieces of himself moving and yes, growing new, in a predictable pattern?

***

"When did you stop being part of the 'we'?"

"What?"

"The Watchers, I mean." She's staring at him. Giles stares past her, over her shoulder, but she fills his peripheral vision. Hard features made harder by obvious interest.

When did it happen? He thinks of possible answers: when they stopped existing; when they rescinded their previously excellent dental benefits; when they turned their backs on the girl they were meant to support and protect. But hadn't they done _that_ before Giles was inducted; before he'd been born? Perhaps the simplest answer is: when they fired me. And yet.

A Watcher watches. He prepares her for-

"For what?" she asks. An echo of a much younger Buffy.

"For her duty. For beating back the darkness, alone." A miserable duty, on both parts.

"But they're not alone anymore."

"Yes." He holds his glass with the tips of his fingers, slowly turning it on the coaster. The light from the lamps and the fire glances off of it. Giles studies it, rather than look at her directly. Quite like this whole conversation, he thinks. It doesn't interest him, sifting the past with this girl, who is a Watcher in name only. He's the only Watcher left - it would be a sad business, poor Watcher that he was, if the organization was worth mourning.

It doesn't interest him - drinking, grieving, incessant talking - or it shouldn't. Not as much as it does.

"So when was it?" she asks after a while. He could pretend not to know what she's talking about, and in the process of figuring it out, he could redirect her. Shift this conversation to somewhere more comfortable, and practical. Demonology. Minor, but useful spells. Hacking, though that's decidedly not his field.

"I don't know."

 

_Dragon_

 

Giles is guiltily watching an Asian girl do unmentionable things to a blonde when he gets the news. He would have preferred to have had his trousers zipped up when hearing about death, destiny and matters unsuited to knickers and oral sex.

He fumbles midstroke, when the phone rings, but manages to answer before the caller hangs up.

"Rupert, something horrible has happened," says Gene.

"One of these days Gene, someone other than me will pick up this phone and you'll be exceedingly embarrassed."

"Don't be ridiculous, Rupert. You never have house guests. Now shut up and let me give you the news." Giles swallows a protest and absently turns down the volume on the telly. Mercifully, the remote still works on the ancient machine.

"So go on. What's your horrible news? The copy machine is broken again, and horror of horrors we'll have to do things manually? You know, life was much simpler before-"

"Merrick is dead, Rupert."

He met him once, before leaving the academy. Merrick is a brilliant man and a great Watcher.

"He was, Rupert, but he isn't any more."

"Oh." He hasn't been in shock for years. The sensation isn't warmly familiar as it once was. Merrick wouldn't have died in some common way. That wasn't for him, but he was only a Watcher-

"You know Merrick. He never knew how to leave well enough alone. Always thought that a Watcher needed to be with his Slayer for it all."

"What-"

"A bloody vampire. His Slayer didn't protect him. He's dead."

Gene continues talking. Normally some part of Giles would still be listening, ready to recount it to the rest of him on playback, but one thought takes up the whole of his mind.

The Watcher is dead. The Watcher is dead.

Dead.

The Slayer-

"She's run off with her mum to some small town, I hear. Who do you think they'll pick as her new Watcher?"

Gene isn't taking this nearly serious enough. The Watcher is dead. Killed by a vampire and the Slayer has gone running.

Giles hangs up the phone.

He won't remember any of this, even seconds later. Gene will recount it to him over a pint of lager, annoyed with his friend. Giles will pretend to care, but he'll still be consumed by one thought. The Watcher is dead.

***

The clocks are silent, like nothing else in the airport is.

It's funny, he thinks. Modern clocks don't tick, or tock, but we are still strangely bound by those sounds. Like a clock isn't a clock without them. He remembers learning the sounds as a child - cultural shorthand for time; always be on, or at the very least, _in_ time.

He is waiting for a three AM flight to LAX, then a bus to Sunnydale, a small town that just happens to host the Slayer and the hellmouth. He is going to take charge of a small high school library and a young, already rebellious Slayer.

When he was a teenager, he kept a diary. The pages were thick and rumpled with tea stains. Bound in imitation leather, some slick plastic that didn't even qualify as PVC, it was dyed a lurid red and green and embossed with a curling Chinese dragon. It offended his sensibilities and that's how he knew it was something he should probably keep around, as anything that hurt his eyes that much would drive his father mad.

He hardly recalls the entries, except that they were often pages long and he rarely did more then whinge about his various and sundry 'problems'.

He wonders if Ms. Summers - Buffy - keeps a diary. Most Slayers have no interest in memorializing the self. They live for the mission and the mission is always in the present. The future is the responsibility of their sisters.

More than a few Slayers have quite literally averted an apocalypse.

So far Buffy Summers has allowed her Watcher to be killed and fled the scene for sunnier climes.

So far Buffy Summers has witnessed the death of her Watcher and killed a master vampire and all his clan, then headed straight for the hellmouth.

He read Merrick's reports. All 3,192 words. Most of those were dates, times, locations and notes on Lothos, about whom much more was known than young Ms. Summers. It took him fifteen minutes at the outside �" he didn't time himself �" to read what will soon be the whole of a life.

Two weeks of existence, or fifty years, sloppily distilled �" a brief introduction to the hard facts of existence. Dear Ms. Summers, I am required to inform you that vampires hunt the night and you were born to fight them. Enclosed in this package is 1 stake, sharpened, 1 set of superpowers, as yet untrained and unrefined, and 2 pieces of advice, as follows: a) pay close attention to your instincts; b) don't forget to duck.

Will he earn a marginal note in Buffy Summers' chronicle? Rupert Giles watched the Slayer for three years before she died, emptying a nest. He retired to New England where he raised plum tomatoes and reread Chaucer and Shakespeare on a rotating schedule, before dying of old age.

Rupert Giles was killed while watching his Slayer engage with a clan of vampires. She fought for four years more, before a new Slayer was called.

One day he will be the favourite joke of young Watchers at school.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

The board flashes with delayed and incoming flights. His isn't scheduled to leave for another two hours but it was recommended that he arrive early, so as to avoid any problems during check in. Giles isn't used to flying and was happy to follow what seemed like excellent advice �" he hadn't realized that he would spend the time awkwardly perched on a hard plastic seat, vainly attempting to drown out the wails of small children with the sound of his thoughts.

Most of his things are being shipped and delivered to the apartment the council leased for him. From the vague description they provided, it sounds adequate for his needs. Once he's in California he will be on his own, as the Watchers don't maintain a field office in the vicinity.

"Regular reports are essential, Rupert."

"We must monitor the situation closely, for both her safety and yours."

"You must ensure that she is loyal to the council."

"Above all, she must be trained thoroughly. Do not allow her any slack."

"Your duty is sacred."

"You are not unaware, I'm sure, of the arduousness of that with which we have tasked you."

"This is the greatest honor a Watcher can receive."

Two hours of instruction and advice was the sum of his meeting with the council. He is not unaware of the arduousness of what he has been tasked with, or the honor they have bestowed on him.

Best though, was Gene's reaction to the news. "Have you written up your will yet?" The board flashes �" his flight arriving, and he stands up, wondering where the time went. Wasn't he just settling in for a two hour wait?

For a moment it seems as though all the air in the room is pressing inward, pressing close and closer to him. He isn't short of breath because right now he has all the air he'll ever need. So he breathes, too fast. Too fast as his mind races even faster.

He's a good Watcher. A damn good Watcher. But he doesn't know why they chose him.

And just when he thinks his body will collapse, it's gone, all that pressure is gone, with a pop.

A young girl - one of those who were crying earlier - is sleeping, half on her seat, half on the floor. He's careful not to step on her as he makes his way to the gate.

Tick tock.

***

Giles has seen the handful of pictures Merrick took of her before making contact, and he's read the slim file on her. And yet, when she walks into his library, for a moment he's surprised by her hair, bright and blond. Not black, as he finds he was expecting. He doesn't know why.

As aware as he is of his possible impending doom, Giles is, he has to admit, somewhat excited about the opportunity to put all of his painstakingly acquired knowledge into practice. He's still enough of an idealist to hope that he can make a difference. Hope that the reports of Ms. Summers' delinquency have been greatly exaggerated.

So when she walks into the library, blonde hair shining in the afternoon light, and declares that vampires are the lowest on the list of her teenage priorities, he's disappointed, to say the least. Particularly in light of what all his research about Sunnydale seems to point to - he doesn't have time for her teenage rebellion, and neither does the world.

For a moment, when she stalks out, he wonders if he's mistaken. Could there be two recently transferred Ms. Summers' in Sunnydale High? Could she really not care?

Giles doesn't want to have to chase her down and chastise her. Luckily, she comes back on her own.

"Ok, what's the sitch?" she asks, before even clearing the door to the library. "You heard about the dead guy in the locker?"

He had, of course. Not the first mysterious death in Sunnydale, by any stretch of the imagination. It didn't even surprise him that she knew, so quickly after declaring her disinterest in her calling. Slayers could no more hide from their destiny than fish could live out of water.

"I don't care," she says, care obvious in her expression, her posture. Obvious in how she tries so hard not to care. Giles remembers being a teenager, vaguely. Still, he can't quell the disappointment. Stop, he tells himself. You've only just met her. Too soon judge. And yet she's meant to be the Slayer.

"Then why are you here?"

"Why can't you people just leave me alone?" she asks desperately, all but stamping her feet in a tantrum that is equal parts childish frustration, and an utterly unchildish world weariness. She knows her destiny, then. Knows and understands her responsibilities, but is willing to leave them unfulfilled. So she can, what? Become a cheerleader?

Back and forth they argue. Buffy, the Slayer, full of questions, demanding answers. Why, why, why. Questions that Giles has no answers for; that the Watchers certainly have no answers for. Save this: duty. Giles has long since stopped asking those questions to which the only answer could be duty. Do yours, help her do hers. Give of yourself until there is nothing left to give. And yet he wonders - is this the Slayer? This tiny girl, so full of contradictory emotions and impulses, barely trained and still too rebellious by far. Merrick was killed before he could do his duty by her.

"A Slayer slays. A Watcher watches. He prepares her for-"

"For what? For getting kicked out of school? For losing all of my friends? For having to spend all of my time risking my life and never telling anyone, because I might endanger them? Go ahead, prepare me."

He says the only thing possible. "Damn."

He gathers himself, centers himself, so that he can prepare her to do just that. And so they begin.

 

_Scales_

 

"I don't know," he says again. "Maybe from the first. I'm afraid I was never an ideal Watcher."

"No one's perfect." She grins. They laugh. Only hers is wholehearted.

"I think that's enough for the night," he says, pushing himself out of the deep chair. His knees protest all the way up.

"I've been trying to hold back a yawn for at least the last hour, so I guess we should call it a night."

He sets his glass down on the dining table, where he won't miss it in the morning. He moves to turn off the lamps that brighten the corners of the room. The fire should be enough for them on their way to bed. She, meanwhile, cleans up the remains of her tea and cookies.

"We can continue the conversation in the morning, Julie. If you like." He offers it without wanting to.

"That's all right, Giles." He can hear the smile in her voice. "There was at least one thing about the Watchers that was worth preserving."

"What?" he asks, busy reaching for the hard to reach cord of the last lamp. Finally. Click. The light goes out, and with it, the room dark. "Blast that flue. Julie - what were you saying?" This was what they got for setting up shop in an old castle - drafts and poorly cared for chimneys.

Behind him here's a rustle, then the doors leading to the garden opening.

Giles turns and takes a few steps towards them. He promptly smashes his knee into an end table. "Dammit." There would be plenty of light from the open door, and bare windows, if his eyes weren't adapted to much more. He waits for the white to clear, and his sight to adjust. Finally. Click.

"Julie?"

**Author's Note:**

> _For Enemies_, is a spell created by Severus Snape.   
> _A morsel of cheese_, is from A Christmas Carol.   
> The dialogue in the scene where Giles and Buffy meet, is lifted from _Welcome To The Hellmouth_.


End file.
